


Phillip and Miss Perfect

by roanniom



Category: This Is Where I Leave You (2014)
Genre: Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers (kinda), Masturbation, Multi-Part, enemies to lovers (kinda), gratuitous douchey boy charm, holiday fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:56:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27963392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roanniom/pseuds/roanniom
Summary: Back in high school you were a perfectionist and he was a charming douche. You’ve spent years suppressing the feelings he awakened in you senior year because you’re better than that, right? You’ll sure find out now that you’re back home for the holidays right in time to run back into him.
Relationships: Phillip Altman/Reader, Phillip Altman/You
Comments: 3
Kudos: 11





	Phillip and Miss Perfect

Phillip Altman had long been the bane of your existence. Phillip and his cheeky grin and his gaggle of older siblings whose mere existence somehow afforded him an untouchable cool status amongst the weaker minded of your peers. A status you’d always felt was completely unearned as he swaggered through the halls of your high school, winking at pretty girls and tossing innuendo-laden comments to his fawning admirers. 

Yes Phillip Altman, you’d decided long ago, was the bane of your existence.

Handsome and arrogant and too smart for his own good, not that he ever applied himself, for crying out loud. It was senior year that solidified your loathing for the boy. Mr. Weathers had paired the two of you together for the group-project winter final. Only a sadist would assign a group project for a final, so you should have seen it coming. Always the instigator, the old man had been thoroughly entertained by the way you and Phillip would constantly bicker in class. Though “bickering” probably wasn’t the right word considering that the interactions were less a volleying of insults and more a pattern of Phillip smoothly complimenting you and you spewing vitriol back in response.

“My place or yours?”

Your head had snapped up hard when you heard the baritone voice laced with amusement too close for comfort a few moments after Mr. Weather’s class had ended.

“Altman. What have we said about my personal bubble?” You made sure your voice dripped with venom. Phillip straightened from where he had leaned to whisper in your ear as you placed books into your locker.

“Your personal bubble is your own and I am not allowed inside it,” he rambled off, as though reciting a vow from memory. After a breath he wiggled his eyebrows and added, “unless expressly invited.”

“In your sticky dreams,” you shot back.

“Every night, Miss Perfect,” Phillip said, giving a roguish half-smile that you wanted to slap off his face. Instead you slammed your locker door and stalked off.

“So, your place it is then?” Phillip called to your retreating back. You ignored him. He cupped his hands over his mouth and shouted after you, making sure that everyone in the hallway could hear his humor-tinged voice.

“Parting is such sweet sorrow, Juliet!”

“We’re presenting on Hamlet, moron,” you said, shooting him a look over your shoulder as you continued to walk away. “That quote you just bastardized is Romeo and Juliet.”

Phillip had just laughed and walked in the opposite direction. Leaving you to fume on your way to the bus while wondering seriously to yourself if murder would be enough to make colleges take back the early acceptances you’d already received.

~*~

And so you two had spent one blustery weekend in early December holed away in your bedroom. You trying desperately to keep Phillip’s tiny attention span from wandering to your panty drawer long enough for a presentation on the themes of Hamlet to miraculously get written. Phillip trying desperately to get into said panty drawer and avoid the slaps you repeatedly sent his way. To the surprise of absolutely no one, you both failed tremendously on all accounts. Your mom certainly didn’t help matters by bustling in with Christmas cookies and cooing comments to Phillip about how cute he was. True to form, he thanked her through a mouthful of gingerbread before throwing an infuriating wink your way. That was it. You knew you and your perfect grades were doomed.

And yet on the day of the presentation, something crazy (a miracle, if you’re sappy) did occur. Phillip pulled – out of his ass, presumably – a 180 and gave a performance to rival anything old Willy-Shakes could have staged. Not only did he express a genuine and insightful knowledge of the themes of the play, but he was also a generous presenter, setting you up for and supporting you in points that even made you, the top of the class, look better. As Mr. Weathers complimented the two of you on your efforts at the end of the presentation, you couldn’t help but stare at Phillip, struck for the first time by the way his hair curled a little at the ends and the way his eyes sparkled under the attention of the class. You didn’t like admitting it to yourself, but your stomach was in knots. Phillip parading around like he’s god’s gift to high school girls? Gross. Phillip confidently presenting literary analysis and showing a glimmer of genuine intelligence? Fucking hot.

After class you’d felt a little intimidated at the prospect of talking to him. You weren’t sure why. It was Phillip Fucking Altman, class clown and grade-A pain in your ass. You watched him out of the corner of your eye as you slid your books back into your bag. His frame stood out amongst the small circle of his friends, his dumb, tall body making it so that you could always see him from far away. 

You gripped your bag close to your body and walked briskly toward the door, deciding against any further interaction with the boy whose eyes had suddenly made your cheeks grow hot for the first time in all the years you’d known his stupid ass. As you walked by, however, he broke away from his friends and chased after you, calling your name. You didn’t stop until you reached the destination of your locker down the hall.

“Hey, so it seems like we killed it in there.” Phillip leaned against the next locker, slightly breathless from having jogged to catch up with you. It was after sixth period on the last day of the semester, and the last few stragglers filtered through the hall on their way to the sweet freedom of winter break.

“Yeah, I guess we did alright, didn’t we?” you said noncommittally, refusing to look up from organizing the inside of your locker.

“Alright? Pretty sure Weathers jizzed his pants when you brought up biblical allegory,” Phillip let out a bark of a laugh.

“Only you could make academic achievement sound vulgar, Altman,” you said, trying but failing to hide the smile that broke across your face.

“It’s not as hard as it seems. All of those stuffy writers were pervs. You know Mary Shelley fucked Lord Byron on her mother’s grave? And that horny bitch wrote Frankenstein!” His smile lit up the corner of your vision and you looked up, blushing at how cute his stupid crooked teeth looked all of a sudden.

“She fucked Percy Shelley on her mother’s grave, not Lord Byron, you idiot,” you replied, rolling your eyes. Phillip’s eyebrows had shot up and his smile had grown wider.

“Well, well Miss Perfect. Never took you for a girl who reads the naughty books, too.”

“Shove it, Altman.” You punched out at his arm, but he successfully dodged, finally demonstrating fast reflexes for once after years of similar assaults from you.

“Well either way, we did it! We made Lit our bitch – up top!” He offered up a hand which you high fived reluctantly. Before you could pull your hand away, his large one wrapped around yours and he yanked you forward. Your body crashed into his and before you could flail, he wrapped his arms around you in a tight hug.

You were too shocked by the action to move, too surprised by the feeling of his strong arms twisting around your back and his hard body against your breasts. You’d always known Phillip was hot, it was one of the things you hated him for. But feeling the evidence of that hotness against you? You felt the knot in your stomach from earlier drop a little lower.

Phillip ducked his head down to the crook of your neck, his warm breath blowing on your ear. You became hyper aware of the silence in the empty hallway, marveling at the fact that there was no one there to witness the sudden intimacy of this weird moment. Was there a memo you’d missed about a Christmas Fair that everyone had rushed off to? Damn. You took a breath to speak but Phillip cut you off, the vibrations from his rumbling voice sending shivers down your spine.

“Yeah, yeah I know. Sorry about your personal bubble.”

You bit your lip, not trusting yourself to speak during this odd experience that balanced precariously in a space between uncomfortable and enticing.

“It’s just that…” Phillip began, but trailed off. Your heart beat in your throat, and somewhere lower, as he began swaying your bodies a little in place. This couldn’t be real, though nightmare or dream you couldn’t decide how you’d classify it. You felt his ribcage expand against you as he went to speak again, barely aware that your own breath was held captive in your chest in anticipation.

“I, too…jizzed in my pants when you brought up biblical allegory.”

It took a few seconds for his words to register in your mind before you reacted. Your hand connected with his face so hard you scared yourself with the volume of the sound. Both of you stood frozen and staring at each other for a moment after that. Him with his hand on his cheek where it had flown to shield his stinging skin and you with your hand suspended in air where it had reverberated back after impacting with his face.

Then Phillip began to laugh.

It was a full sound that echoed off the walls. Your face screwed up in response, immediately feeling shame heat your ears and cheeks. But then you noticed that his smile held no derision, no malice. He was genuinely entertained by the fact that, after all these times slapping him, you’d finally hit the mark dead on.

Your hand flew to cover your lips, dozens of emotions dancing on your features as you began to register the humor of the moment as well. However, you also felt foolish. Not a second before he’d let loose the comment that broke all your physical self-control your mind had been toying with the idea of losing physical self-control in a very different way. The hot, knotted feeling in your lower belly had not gone away with this turn of events, it had merely intensified. Your palm tingled where it had made contact with Phillip’s cheek.

The rush of emotions, so many and so dissonant, overwhelmed you. So you did the only thing you could. You slammed your locker door, ducked your head down, and ran for the door, leaving a very confused Phillip still chuckling to himself in your wake.

~*~

That night, laying in bed, you had chastised yourself for feeling what seemed to be every feeling but your usual hatred toward Phillip. This wouldn’t do. You were the top of the class. You hadn’t gotten this far for this long by having twisty turny feelings for stupid beautiful boys with crooked teeth and lots of charm.

Somewhere in your self-admonishment, however, your thoughts turned back to the feeling of his hard body against yours. His arms, large and muscled, containing you with such ease and solidity. The planes of his large chest as they pressed into your soft curves. Without even thinking much about it, your hands moved under your sheets, squeezing those curves.

The knotted feeling from before returned, but this time it was less of a knot and more of an ache. You knew the feeling. Had willed it away while watching movies where hot actors sucked too convincingly on the necks of their leading ladies. Had clumsily tried to remedy it with fumbling rubs and twisting legs on nights when the tension got to be too much.

But that night as you’d thought about Phillip Altman’s arms around you, your pointer finger moved to your clit, rubbing small circles around the sensitive nub. As you thought of Phillip Altman’s lips as he rambled confidently in front of a crowd, and Phillip Altman’s big nose scrunching as he winked at you across a classroom, and Phillip’s dimples as he laughed at one of your personalized insults, and Phillip Altman’s dick as it could be seen outlined in his athletic shorts during gym….

The ache inside grew and you felt your pussy clenching around nothing, desperate to be filled by something you hadn’t known you wanted. Haphazardly you thrust a finger inside your folds, the hand not preoccupied with circling your clit reaching up to grab one of your breasts.

You tried to imagine Phillip’s large hands replacing yours. Tried to imagine how he’d fill you, how he’d squeeze you. You could almost hear the way he’d put that already dirty mouth of his to good use.

“You want to cum, Miss Perfect? Hmm?” You imagined him saying. The vibrations from his deep voice rang through your mind, left over from when it had caused you to shiver earlier. “Want me in your personal bubble now?”

You whimpered in the darkness of your room, speeding up the friction on your clit and thrusting two more fingers in your slick heat. You imagined his lips at your neck, at your clavicle, at your sternum, sucking at the skin and tickling you with the stubbling facial hair he’d only been sporting since last summer.

“You’ve always been such a good girl,” the Phillip in your mind practically purred. You felt yourself reaching a precipice you’d never quite attained before. The muscles of your legs quaked and your squeezed your nipples, needing more of something.

“Why don’t you be a good girl for me and cum?”

Your whole body convulsed against the mattress and your muscles seized, your fingers trapped inside your pussy as it contracted over and over. You felt absolutely euphoric for a moment, almost nothing passing through your mind but the image of Phillip, smiling at you with that same, familiar, cheeky smile.

But as you came down from your high, your sweat ran cold with a realization. It had been your first orgasm. Phillip had caused your first orgasm. A mixture of shame and anger flooded your system as you curled into yourself. It wasn’t enough Phillip Altman was the golden boy of the school, it wasn’t enough that he could – and did – have any girl he wanted, he had to have your orgasm, too?

You felt silly but you also felt indignant. You had prided yourself on not being affected, on being above him. After all, why go after the boy who had it all and who only teased you because it felt like an accomplishment to make the smart girl squirm under his gaze?

No. You hated Phillip Altman and you wouldn’t let him have this. You silently thanked whatever militant non-secular whacko had pushed the Christmas agenda on the school system so hard that you had two weeks off now to help distance you from any interactions with the boy who plagued your mind.

You had drifted to sleep that night, unaware that several streets over, in a room very much like your own, Phillip Altman was tugging at his hard cock, groaning over thoughts of the girl who challenged him, the girl who yelled at him, the girl who slapped him. The one girl he was so sure he’d never get with, but who he wanted most.

~*~

Now, twelve years later, you wander down the baking aisle of the local grocery store, praying to all that is holy that you won’t bump into someone from your high school. After graduation you had peaced the fuck out, leaving for college on the opposite coast. You’d spent years convincing your parents that you were too busy with undergrad and then grad school and then publishing deadlines to ever make the crazy trip back to your hometown, instead baiting them into visiting you for warmer holidays that smelled of the beach and your new life. Two consecutive shitty breakups on your part and one knee replacement surgery on your mother’s part combined to turn this into the year that your parents insisted you finally made the pilgrimage home.

Which is how you find yourself on a winter night browsing the alternative flour selection, having been sent to look for the perfect gluten-free option that will make your mom’s gastrointestinal system “not blow up like a friggen balloon.” It was funny how not even a medical diagnosis could deter that woman from her festive baking habits. You’re deep in thought over the differences between coconut and almond when a deep voice rumbles out from your deepest memories, reverberating right into aisle four.

“You know I read your latest book.”

You look up and almost drop your two flours to the ground. Instead you fumble, gripping them tightly to your chest and causing vaporized coconut and almond to puff into the air in front of you.

As the powder settles out of your line of sight you see him. Phillip Altman. Twelve years older, with more facial hair and a couple laugh lines, but it’s him alright.

“Hey there, Miss Perfect.”

His nose crinkles as he winks at you. You intake breath sharply.

And choke on some flour.

It tastes like coconut. And you know then that you should have just trusted your gut and gone with almond.

You also know that you’re in trouble.


End file.
